


The Facts of Life

by TakingOverMidnight3482



Series: Julie and the Phantoms One-Shots: Ghostly Mishaps [18]
Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV)
Genre: (mentioned) - Freeform, Gen, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, a look at the inner thoughts of Bobby, bobby went through a lot okay we're not judging him here, tw alcohol, tw drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:35:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27899209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TakingOverMidnight3482/pseuds/TakingOverMidnight3482
Summary: When Trevor held Carrie Anne Wilson in his arms for the first time, his heart fixed itself.~~Or, a look into what Trevor is certain he knows from the last 25 years.
Relationships: Alex & Bobby | Trevor Wilson & Luke Patterson & Reggie, Bobby | Trevor Wilson & Carrie Wilson
Series: Julie and the Phantoms One-Shots: Ghostly Mishaps [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1925116
Comments: 28
Kudos: 224





	The Facts of Life

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sam, who requested that I write anything I wanted (which I really appreciate). 
> 
> I've been wanting to do a sort of introspective piece for Bobby for a while but I just didn't have any ideas on it until this week, so this was a fun piece to write. The perspective is a little up and down, but honestly I just kind of wrote it as it flowed from my head so it's meant to be a little wonky. 
> 
> TW for mentions of drugs and alcohol.

There were a lot of things that Bobby – excuse me, Trevor Wilson – was pretty sure he knew about life.

Three coffins cost roughly $1500 dollars, if you got the cheaper ones.

Gravestones charged you by the letter, not the word, so if you ever saw a shortly worded gravestone, it was either because the person paying for it was poor or the person being buried wasn’t well loved.

Smoking weed led to drinking, and drinking led to more drinking, which led to harder drugs, which led back to drinking. Everything always led back to drinking, until somehow you wound up in a ditch on the side of the road with nowhere to go and no one to call, because everyone that you would have called previously was dead.

They don’t actually bury coffins six feet under. It’s closer to ten, in most cases, because sometimes when graveyards run out of room, they just bury the next person on top of the oldest grave in the yard.

Therapy was a load of horse shit, if you didn’t believe in it. Therapy only worked if you wanted it to work, and for nearly eight years, Bobby – Trevor – didn’t want it to work. Therapists believed that if you weren’t in war, that if you weren’t assaulted or molested beyond repair, then you couldn’t have trauma.

At least, all the ones Bob- Trevor had did.

Leaning on the support of a stranger you met the night of your friends’ death only worked for so long. Eventually, she would leave and move in with her fiancé, and you’d be left alone, hooking up and drinking and smoking and hooking up and smoking until at some point again, you were in a ditch.

Only this time even the stranger-turned-friend wasn’t there to drag you from the ditch, because she was on her honeymoon, and you were still neck deep in booze on a Tuesday night.

Talent managers are hard to come by when your whole backstory was tragedy. Name changes were easier. Wiping the slate clean was easy. Keeping it clean was harder.

Drinking less is easy when you replace the alcohol with sex, but then at some point one of those hookups shows up at the door of your apartment and tells you she’s pregnant.

Your friend’s parents weren’t great.

Homophobes. Fights. Arguing, shouting, thrown objects, emotional neglect.

Your own parents weren’t like that, but then again, you haven’t spoken to your own parents in almost two years, because you can’t remember their phone number and they don’t have yours and frankly, you don’t really want to see them anyway. You know they’ll just be disappointed.

Trevor Wilson definitely knew one thing about life, and that was that he didn’t want his child to grow up with parents like his friends.

Not smoking is easy, when you never really liked the taste of it in the first place. Not having sex a little harder, but easy, when you stop going to bars five days out of the week.

Finding a job and money to support the child on the way? Much harder.

The box where Luke kept his songs was still in the garage where he left it. It was easy to break into, when the woman who lived there was the one who’d pulled you from the ditch time and time again, belly rounded now with her own child. She was happy to see you, even if you were there under false pretenses.

The pages were old and worn and crinkly with age. The ones that were too personal were set aside – not his time. Not his place. Never his place.

Maybe his dead friends would be okay with this. Maybe not. Maybe they’d be pissed. But they were dead, so frankly, Trevor didn’t care. Their families certainly hadn’t.

Alex’s headstone had nothing but a name and dates. His family was wealthy, but they’d never treated him right when he told them he was gay. Trevor refused to be that parent.

Luke’s parents had cried, had mourned, but in the end, they were what drove Luke away. They didn’t support him, his dreams, his aspirations. Trevor refused to be that parent.

Reggie’s parents had mourned, and then continued fighting. Fighting like it didn’t matter that their only child was dead, like their fights hadn’t made Reggie spend countless nights on Bobby’s sofa, sobbing his eyes out and wishing he didn’t exist. Trevor refused to be that parent.

So forgive him if he didn’t think they deserved it. If he didn’t think they deserved to know how hard their children had worked to try and please them, even though they knew nothing ever would.

Finding a record label was easy, when you played songs as good as the ones Luke wrote. When you were approached by a man with slicked back hair and a cape thrown over his shoulder even though it was 2005 and no one wore capes anymore, offering you to play at his club for the rest of your life in exchange for the most money you’d ever seen written on a piece of paper in your life.

And you said yes, because the man only needed you every other weekend for his stunts and his shows, and the sounds and the lights made it easier to stop drinking and start exercising, start cleaning up, start breathing again.

When Trevor held Carrie Anne Wilson in his arms for the first time, his heart fixed itself, even as it shattered knowing that her mother was gone in childbirth.

Being a single father is hard, especially when you’re famous.

Bed times don’t exist, because they never did at home, so you don’t really know how they should work. Food is complicated, because for the longest time you’ve been eating fast food burgers and half-hard blocks of cheese from the refrigerator and beer. You learn that kids really like dinosaur shaped foods, for some reason.

She grows up, and the woman who has pulled you from ditches time and time again helps you out with what you don’t know. So does her husband, and through the two of them and their little girl, being a father becomes easier.

But people don’t like when you steal music. When she discovered what Trevor had done, she pulled back. Withdrew. Took her daughter and her husband and her toddling baby boy with her, and Trevor was once again left picking up the pieces of a broken family and the feeling of a shattered home.

She told no one, which surprised him. And when she died, she took the secret to her grave, and Trevor held onto Carrie at her funeral as she cried.

He couldn’t shed a tear – he hadn’t truly cried since the night the ambulance lights lit up the outside of the Orpheum. And he felt that if he cried, he would be stomping on her very name.

Trevor Wilson – Bobby – knew a lot about the world.

His daughter was the most precious thing in his life. He’d do anything to protect her and make her feel loved, because his friends hadn’t gotten that love the way they deserved to. Making deals with the devil was necessary sometimes to survive. Chicken nuggets tasted the best when you made them in the oven, not the microwave.

And ghosts were 100% real.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: these are my personal thoughts about what went on in Bobby's head from the time of The Orpheum to the present, so pls don't be rude about my own headcanons.


End file.
